Congratulations to the winners of the third Jerboa Lit 250!
July 2026 prompt
Genre: Horror
Character: (A) Conniver
First Place
They Call Us a Murder
By Kelli Johnson
Slander, really, as we rarely pull the lever ourselves.
But humans are flighty like that. Take the McClellan Vineyard, my erstwhile abode, where they drove us out with monstrous, wind-flapping sacks-on-sticks. No appreciation for honest work.
At least Lord Roxbury understands my worth, though I confess life on the Estate’s rather dull at times. Sure, he bribes me with brass buttons and a thimble or two to keep the hawks at bay—which I do; nary a chicken’s been snatched since I and my fellows took up our perch atop the garden-coop—but life should be about more than just work, no?
One must cultivate hobbies.
Indeed, the master’s daughter had lately cultivated one of her own: the McClellan boy, a sun-browned thing who mucked Roxbury’s sow-stalls. Buffeting boredom, I spent one afternoon relocating trinkets from Lady Roxbury’s dressing-table—a sapphire brooch and two strings of pearls—to the farmhand’s satchel. A little gardening of my own, if you will.
The boy swung three mornings later in the square. (Alas, my cousin reached his eyeballs first; one cannot always have one’s cake, and so on . . .)
Thereafter, I was winging over the cemetery when I spotted young miss in her mourning gown, keening to a cluster of red-rimmed poppies thronging a headstone.
Such lovely flowers deserve admiration. So, for six evenings, I laid those blooms upon her windowsill.
By the seventh, she’d leapt from that very window, her neck a broken flower-stem.
Curiously, Roxbury doubled my wages after that.
Such fun!
–
Kelli Johnson is a teacher and freelance editor from Connecticut. For four fabulous years, she taught ESL in Guangzhou, China, but today, she can be found in Albania, working remotely and writing up a storm. She was delighted by the conflict ingrained in the character prompt “conniver” and jumped at the chance to write in an old-timey gothic voice. Her true love, however, is speculative fiction, and this spring, she won the Elegant Literature Award for New Writers with one of her sci-fi short stories.
Second Place
A Bothy Break
By Lisa Furlong
After a tense and snappish journey, they’d finally found the lochside bothy, using maps and vague printed instructions, hiking the last six miles through forest. There was no signal, electricity or running water, but that’s what Thom said he craved, off-grid wilderness. Hence Harriet researched bothies, remote, basic shelters left unlocked. This patch of Scotland was untamed. Thick ancient woodland and threatening charcoal clouds made the bothy look almost hostile.
Thom set about lighting a fire, hoping the smell of woodsmoke would overpower the smell of decay. He would have relished this isolation by himself. Or with someone else.
Harriet evicted spiders and cobwebs and zipped their sleeping bags together. The visible intention being of them curling up in a cozy pocket. There would be no phoning Sophie when Thom thought she wasn’t listening. There would be no phoning Sophie after Harriet ensured Thom went missing. Even away from communications Harriet sensed it was not just the two of them.
The sparkling loch water pictured on the brochure was muddy and still. They sat desultorily on the damp grass, drank their sour wine and gazed over the water at gathering dusk as an orchestra of nighttime noises tuned up in the forest behind them.
Thom knew that this would be their last break together. Harriet knew that she could not let Thom be with anyone else.
Neither of them knew they had found the wrong bothy. Harriet had sensed right, it was not just the two of them.
–
Lisa lives in a pink house on a peninsula in northwest England between Wales and Liverpool. She still works far too hard in the family construction business while managing the side hustle of renting out the empty nest bedrooms on Airbnb, although it looks like her mum’s dementia will see her and Russell her cat occupying one of the rooms before too long . . . add in a foster dog from Abu Dhabi, likely to become a permanent sister to their retriever, and it’s a busy little world. A great cook, Lisa’s superpower is being able to make a meal from an empty fridge, very handy when there’s a shifting population around the kitchen table. A kitchen table that the family describes as “the cultural centre of the universe.”
Third Place
Fairness Is a Plate Full of Worms
By Sam James
Mother has a plate full of worms.
She thinks it’s just linguini, but Uncle told me to sneak in some wrigglers. Uncle says that Mother made it so earthworms got in his mouth, so it’s only fair. He helped me find especially juicy ones, and even let me have some that had made their home in his face.
Mother has a mouth full of worms.
They writhe on her tongue, slither over painted lips. She screams flecks of soil, claws at her mouth with elegant nails. Uncle says he screamed, too—but that was long before the worms. Uncle was totally calm—still, even—when I pulled the worms from his mouth. It was cold; I had to get my fingers right in there, especially to get the one up his nostril, burrowing into his left eye. So slippery.
Mother has a mouth full of curse words and lies.
She tells me Uncle moved away, in between retches, in between smacks. But Uncle is in the garden. I found him right where Mother left him, hidden amongst the purple and green. I’ll show him my bruises later. Maybe Uncle will know how I can give them back to Mother? That would be fair.
Uncle likes things to be fair. And it’s not fair he gets all these lovely flowers to himself. I think Mother would like it here. Apart from the worms.
Uncle agrees.
He showed me where to dig.
Soon, the worms will have a plate full of Mother.
–
Sam James (he/him) is a professional musician and flash fiction writer based in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England. Known for a big red beard and an even bigger library of dragon books, Sam specializes in weird stories. Weird funny, weird gross, sometimes just weird weird. By day, he runs Tunescribers, transcribing sheet music for musicians; by night, he writes flash fiction. His work has been featured in Rat Bag Lit, One More Short Story, and Jerboa Lit, and other publications. He has also placed in competitions including Not Quite Write and Writing Battle. A proud member of the writing group Up Down Left Write, Sam also offers editorial assessments for weird fiction at www.sam-james.com
Honorable Mentions
Lilith, Vivienne, and the Darkness
By Karly Marshall
Daylight withers impossibly fast within the belly of these thick woods where pine needles scratch the delicate skin of Vivienne’s arms. Vivienne is only five. She is very frightened of the dark and what creatures lurk inside it. Back home, the villagers whisper folktales of an ancient evil in these woods: a cruel monster who exsanguinates children and makes a fine powder of their bones.
“I want to go home,” Vivienne whines, because she is tired and scared and her little feet ache.
“Shush,” says Lilith as she pulls Vivienne through the woods. “Hurry on.”
Lilith is only nine, but she is much braver than her sister. She itches to shake free from the sickly heat of Vivienne’s hand gripping her own. Instead, endures to lead Vivienne further still from the village. It won’t be long now.
Where the woods are pitchest-black, Lilith instructs Vivienne to sit and stay, and grins when she listens like a feebleminded mutt. A short distance away, Lilith hides behind a tree and listens as her sister whimpers and wails until a shriek punctuates her little life.
An unearthly quiet surrounds her now. She feels a tickle of excitement as she imagines how her parents will blanket her with affectionate concern when she returns to the village alone at dawn. But an impossible sea of darkness stretches between now and then, and there are creatures hiding in the pitch. Lilith closes her cold fist around nothing but the rapid drumming of her own heartbeat.
–
Karly Marshall is a recent university graduate from Ontario, Canada. When she isn’t writing, she spends her free time reading, killing plants, and listening to music; much of her writing draws inspiration from the powerful lyrical storytelling of her favorite artists Kate Bush, Tori Amos, and Blondshell. She hopes you have a lovely day, wherever you are.
International Waters (A Story of Modern-Day Sea Slavery)
By Jaime Gill
Shirtless, sweat-sheened, we shovel trash-fish. Juveniles, crabs, slimy ponyfish. The stench is sticky. I vomited on my first day. A rifle-butt cracked my head. Now I only eat after work ends.
Tall Boss prowls, picking fish fit for humans. We’re not humans anymore—we’ll eat trash tonight.
Sea surrounds as far as we can see. I could dive towards freedom.
If I could swim.
***
Sleepless in the ship’s bowels, I think of Chinly from my village. He returned from our neighbouring land riding a new motorbike. He promised factory work there. Food, lodgings, money to send home. “No passport, no problem.”
I feared my mistake when Chinly stayed on the pier as the trawler sputtered towards international waters. In these seas, police are powerless. Without a passport, I’m a prisoner. No. A slave.
Choking on heat and betrayal, I creep to the deck for air. A green light twinkles. A boat, the first I’ve seen. “Help!” I howl.
Something cracks my skull.
***
I wake dangling from a chain, head underwater. I twist up, gulping air. Two bosses laugh, throwing fish guts down.
Their flashlight reveals the fin piercing the water.
I think of my brothers, trying not to scream.
The shark’s so close I can see meat-matted teeth.
At the last moment, the winch yanks me up, sobbing.
***
Shovelling next day, I watch my countryman, Bunna. After five years, his back’s a motorway map of scars. He never speaks.
Maybe the shark’s teeth would have been merciful.
–
Jaime Gill is a queer, British former music journalist, now working/volunteering for nonprofits across Asia. He writes, reads, runs, boxes, travels, and sometimes socializes at gunpoint. His stories have appeared in The Forge, Missouri Review, Fractured, Masters Review, Trampset, and others. Hie’s won several recent fiction awards, including a Bridport Prize and the Luminaire Prose Award, and been a finalist for the Tennessee Williams Prize and Bath Short Story Award. He’s a three-time Pushcart nominee. No pets or children, but he’s keeping a few houseplants alive, barely, while writing a novel, screenplay, and more short stories. Website—www.jaimegill.com; Newsletter—www.jaimegill.substack.com
A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
By Laurie O’Connor Stephans
Timothy poured the clear liquid into the last decanter, careful to match the now poison-laced wine’s original level. He replaced the lid and set it in the cabinet.
I’m going to enjoy this . . . maybe even more than what brought me to this point.
Two years earlier, Timothy joined the small, close-knit community. As always, his easy charm and carefully-crafted approachability garnered everyone’s instant and unconditional trust. The act was so convincing that people came to Timothy for comfort when the depravities began.
It started with animals, as it often does. When the mutilated body of the Nelson’s toy poodle, Gingersnap, was discovered, a coyote was blamed. But by the fourth incident—this animal violated before being torn limb from limb—everyone knew there was a monster in their midst.
The heightened vigilance around pets and his spiraling appetite for violence led Timothy to new prey—children. No riverboat sharpie ever displayed a better poker face than him as he wept and prayed with the parents of the eight-year-old whose ravaged body he would later dump in a nearby ravine.
But someone had seen him. Someone from the community.
If one knows, soon they all will. I have no choice.
He had just relocked the cabinet when Alice Rogers came in to the sacristy.
“You’re here bright and early, Alice.”
“It takes much longer to set up for communion today, Pastor Tim. You know everybody in the congregation attends on Easter Sunday!”
Timothy smiled.
“I pray you’re right, Alice.”
–
By day, Laurie works at a law firm. By night (when not fighting crime), she exercises writing muscles in favor of real ones. Most of her fiction features humor and twist endings, while she observes real life in her blog, We B Late (https://laurieoconnorstephans.com). Her first book, “Once a Prompt a Time,” is a collection of forty-four short stories, all inspired by unusual writing contest prompts, which are included at the end of the stories to avoid spoilers. The book is ideal for lovers of short fiction as well as for writers looking for a “how-to” playbook for writing contests or a way to explore beyond their genre comfort zones. Laurie and her husband, Mike, share an empty nest in Plano. She credits their harmonious forty-plus years of marriage to the shared joy of grandparenthood and not the catharsis that comes from killing off characters whose resemblance to actual husbands, living or dead, is purely coincidental.